


La galette des rois

by redscudery



Series: Off-Kilter [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Birthday, Bottom John, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Jealous Sherlock, Kilts, M/M, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 18:56:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1176668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets possessive after hearing that John let Sholto kiss him. Sherlock being possessive means John bent over the couch. Also, there's cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La galette des rois

**Author's Note:**

> Part eight of "Off-Kilter"- read "Epiphany" first if you want context. If you just want porn, read on!
> 
> The “galette des rois” is a traditional French pastry served on Epiphany (January 6, also Sherlock’s birthday). The fève is a little doohickey baked into the cake, and the person who receives it in their slice gets special privileges. 
> 
> Also, I had every intention of making this a top!John fic, because that is my thing, but for some reason*, this will be top!lock. Stay tuned for some sweet Valentine’s Day switching, though.
> 
> *and by ‘some reason’ I mean ‘Benedict’s Applelock gigglefit.’

It’s quiet in the flat, now. Sherlock frowns.

 

“That was not.. Not the most erotic story someone has ever told me.”

 

“I told you that.”

 

“I know. You meant me to understand that that switch had been flipped for you before I touched you.”

 

“I did, and I wanted to satisfy your curiosity.”

 

The joke John’s waiting for doesn’t come.

 

John gets up and, adjusting the kilt, walks to the kitchen. He flips on the kettle, then gets plates and cups from the cupboard.

 

It stays quiet while the kettle boils. When the tea is steeping, John takes a pastry box off the kitchen bench and shows it to Sherlock.

 

“I bought this for you at the little French place.”

 

“It’s a cake.”

 

“It’s a …”

 

“…galette des rois, yes. Northern, too, which is the superior choice.”

 

“Prefer frangipane filling to candied fruit, do you? That does surprise me.”

 

“I’m letting you distract me with pastry.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I suppose you are going to make me try and find the fève?”

 

“I am.”

 

“I suppose it’s better than birthday candles and” Sherlock shudders “singing.”

 

“The candles are in the cupboard, if you like.”

 

“Torturer. You tell me stories about vomit and then subject me to childish party games.” Sherlock slumps back in to the couch.

 

John shakes his head and returns to the kitchen. He cuts two slices of cake, adds milk to both cups of tea and sugar to Sherlock’s, and comes back to the living room, Sherlock’s goodies in hand.

 

“Tea?”

 

Sherlock is silent.

 

“Come on, Sherlock. I’m standing here in a crooked kilt, having told you possibly the most embarrassing story of my life. Do I have to offer to feed you cake by hand now, too?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Don’t be such a drama queen.”

 

“Drama queen? Drama queen?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Sherlock unfolds himself from the couch, takes a step towards John. He reaches out and takes the tea and cake from John’s hands. John holds still, waiting. Sherlock’s coiled tight, angry and excited.

 

The cup clangs on the table, and the plate follows.

 

“You have just told me that you let another man kiss you.”

 

“It was the only kind thing to do.”

 

“Kind?” Sherlock is a couple of steps closer now.

 

“Yes, kind.” John holds his ground and sets his shoulders.

 

“Not to me.”

 

“I didn’t know you then.”

 

“But you told me about it. You want me to know.”

 

“I wanted you to know because…”

 

“I know why.” Sherlock is so close. “I don’t know what you want me to do about it.”

 

“What do you want to do about it?”

 

“What I want to do, John, is bend you over that couch.” His voice is low, so low. John shivers. Even wearing pyjama pants and a t-shirt, Sherlock still looks threatening, tense and looming.

 

“You can try.” John almost whispers.

 

“I just wish it were a park bench.” Sherlock is close enough now that John can feel his breath on his neck.

 

“Jealous?”

 

“Yes.” The breath comes out of Sherlock in a long low hiss, and he pushes John back, his large hand splayed out over John’s chest. He comes so close that John thinks he’s going to kiss him, rough and hard, but instead Sherlock just looks at him. They’re nose to nose, now, and Sherlock’s eyes are clear and ferocious.

 

“You’re mine, John. Always mine.”

 

“I know. You should too.”

 

He pulls John in, rumpling the kilt up and holding John’s arse so that their cocks are slotted together. He still doesn’t kiss him, though, just rocks deliberately against him. John would try to reach for Sherlock’s mouth, wants to, but he knows Sherlock needs to lead, at least for now.

 

Sherlock dips his head to John’s neck, first to the soft spot just below his earlobe, down the cords of his neck to the pressure point at the outside edge of his clavicle. John bends his neck obediently, letting himself melt into the texture of Sherlock’s lips and tongue. Sherlock’s mouth is killingly light; he seems to be brushing all of John’s erogenous zones at once, but to punish rather than to satisfy. John sits tight, trying to regulate his breathing and let Sherlock take his time, but he’s really looking forward to that mouth being put to still better use.

 

Not being above manipulation, he moans. Sherlock’s body tenses a bit, and he pulls John closer, their chests meeting. Sherlock pulls the kilt up further, buries his fingers in John’s waist, and finally, finally, bends his head to John’s. His kiss is hot and antagonistic, driven by jealousy and anger and need. John runs his hands up Sherlock’s back to the nape of his neck, soothing for a moment, but as Sherlock keeps demanding, pushing, John pushes back, grabbing a handful of Sherlock’s hair and twisting a bit. He hears a satisfying “oh” against his mouth and feels Sherlock’s hands flex against his arse.

 

Then, Sherlock lets him go, steps back. They look at each other, both angry, both aroused.

 

“The couch,” Sherlock says finally, “Now.”

 

“Yes, sir!” John’s tone is just this side of mocking, but he goes anyway, sits. He watches Sherlock pace towards him, stopping short of contact and pulling off his shirt slowly and deliberately.

 

John’s cock jumps. Sherlock is a bloody showoff, but he’s an effective bloody showoff. Watching that pale body emerge from the dark t-shirt, first one side of his ribs, then a long, defined arm, then the other side. He throws the shirt aside disdainfully, the twist of his body as he does emphasizing the lean definition of his obliques. When he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pyjama pants and pushes them down, freeing his cock and exposing the long lines of his thighs. He steps out of the puddle of fabric towards John, naked and furious, and John sits forward, willing to submit a bit if it means taking that glorious cock in his mouth.

 

“Not like that, John. On your knees.”

 

John frowns, reaches for Sherlock.

 

“Now, John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and soft; he means it. John gets up, stepping in Sherlock’s space and brushing his hip against that erection, then kneels on the couch, leaning his elbows on the back.

 

Sherlock pushes the kilt up, and, without ceremony, trails a finger down between John’s arse cheeks, and cups John’s balls in one large hand briefly before moving on to his cock. John drops his head to his forearms as Sherlock’s long fingers stroke its sensitive underside. The scratchiness of the kilt’s wool is being brought into excruciating contact with the tip of his cock because of the damp bead of precum that’s leaked there, and while it isn’t pleasant, it isn’t unpleasant either.

 

Sherlock takes his hand away and steps closer. John feels the heat of his body looming behind him; Sherlock’s hands are on his hips from behind, rough, followed by the brush of his cock against John’s arse, suggestive and exciting.

 

John has a sudden desire to laugh; they haven’t discussed this. He knows, from his medical education (and a certain amount of Internet…research) that someone usually the penetrator and someone is usually the penetrated, but he’s always thought that he would be the latter rather than the former.

 

However, John can’t afford to be anything but open-minded, now, and as Sherlock starts to tease him with a lubricated finger, however, he feels willing to give it a try.

 

When the second finger slides in, pressing forward to graze his prostate as Sherlock’s other hand wraps firmly around his cock and strokes, he sees that perhaps he hasn’t fully considered the advantages of bottoming.

 

Once Sherlock has fully prepared him, and has positioned the full hardness of his cock against John’s open arsehole, John is panting, his skin flushed with sweat and desire. He’s not begging Sherlock to take him, but it’s a near thing.

 

Then Sherlock steps back.

 

“Sherlock!” If he moves any further away, John might break. He will not beg.

 

“I just want to look at you, John.”

 

John drops his head back on his arms and exhales. He will not beg.

 

“You’re mine, John.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I want you so much.” Sherlock’s voice is rough. John closes his eyes, almost overcome- this isn’t a power play now, but a confession. A confession not only of love but of weakness.

 

“Please, Sherlock,” John begs, because Sherlock needs him to.

 

Sherlock’s hands are back on John’s hips in an instant, loving, now, caressing. The head of his cock is slick, and as it slides in, he bends forward and kisses from the nape of John’s neck down to between his shoulder blades, as far as he can reach without moving away.

 

“Stay still, John.”

 

John is nothing but sensation now; all he can do is hold steady and let Sherlock lead. As Sherlock pushes his way deeper, it takes everything John has not to start moving his hips; as odd a feeling as it is, he already feels his orgasm starting to build. Once Sherlock is all the way in, John curls back against him and exhales; Sherlock is breathing harshly above him, one hand on John’s back.

 

“Good?”

 

“Good.”

 

And then they begin, moving slowly, carefully. It’s slippery and hot and invasive and perfectly intimate. As their rhythm intensifies, Sherlock reaches around and takes John’s cock in his hand again, matching stroke for stroke. John lets Sherlock take him over and break him down; he’s falling apart in his hands as Sherlock touches what feels like every part of his body at once.

 

He’s right on the edge of orgasm when Sherlock, quiet as always, comes in a huff of hot breath. The hand on John’s cock falters, but it’s enough; John pushes into it and then he comes too, as from a long way away. Sherlock drops his head on John’s back for a moment, leaving one more kiss on his nape, and then, slowly, pulls away. John winces a bit as he does so.

 

“Your shoulder or your arse?” John turns himself carefully around to look at Sherlock, who’s taking up a lot of room in his field of vision.

 

“Both. Worth it, though.” Sherlock pulls him down on to the couch, heedless of stickiness. He wraps one long arm around John’s body and the other around his softening erection, kissing his ear.

 

“Happy birthday?” John tries, just to feel the bass rumblings of Sherlock’s laugh against his back.

 

“Best birthday ever. Or it would be, if there were cake.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

 

 

 

Later, much later, after a shower, and a sleep, they eat the cake. It is delicious.

 

The fève is in John’s slice.

 

 


End file.
